


Standard Operating Procedure

by DachOsmin



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Angst, Aphrodisiacs, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Military Ranks, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 02:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10710402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: When Captain Andor comes back from a mission drugged to the gills, Draven does what he has to to protect his best operative.





	Standard Operating Procedure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



Draven’s in his office, flicking through interrogation reports when he gets the message.

_Data drop went south brought a torture drone_

He sets his stylus down, takes a deep breath. Closes the reports and checks that the connection is secure. Only then does he let himself check the name on the message.

 _Aurio Castra._ Captain Andor, then, blast it all to hell. At least he’s still alive. And the message wasn’t sent under duress, else he’d have used a different alias. Still, Draven’s heart sinks. If he’s facing a torture drone, Andor might be biting down on a cyanide bullet even now; that’s protocol. Andor’s one of his best. His death would be a blow to the war effort. Outside of that, well… allowing himself grief is not a luxury he can afford.

He picks his stylus back up and pens a response. _Status report?_

_got out had to eliminate hte informant left a mess_

He checks the channel again out of habit: still secure. But even so, channels are only as secure as the data with which they’re entrusted. He feels a brief stab of irritation; Andor should know better than to be this reckless. Draven’s trained him better than this.

He taps the side of the screen, considering. _Where are you? Extractable?_

He’ll know what’s really being asked. How can we protect those secrets in your head? Can we get them out with your body intact? Or do we need to send a sniper?

_backon base inmy room,,._

Not what he was expecting to hear. Not what he should be hearing, at least. Andor’s way out of line; this is a complete breach of protocol in so many ways. Where was the information when it was happening? He should have been informed the second the mission went south. And even if things were hot, Andor could have, should have made contact on the ride back. He should have come straight to Draven on arrival at the base to make his report, instead of moseying off to his bunk. Something is wrong. And when things go wrong in his business, people die. Draven presses his lips into a thin line and stabs at the pad with the stylus.

_Stay there._

He powers down his workstation and packs up his things. After a moment’s hesitation, he grabs a blaster from under his desk and sets the settings to stun. It never hurts to be too careful, after all.

 ***

Andor’s room is in an old wing of the barracks, down a mess of tunnels crammed with dripping pipes and flickering overhead lights. He’s never been there before, but he has the room numbers of all of his operatives memorized. It’s part of his job. He watches their comings and goings on the surveillance feeds, sees who they go out with, who they stumble back with in the early hours of the morning. Andor is popular with both men and women, but never the same one twice. Draven approves. It makes his job easier, knowing he won’t have to break the news to a boyfriend or girlfriend when Andor dies.

It takes him longer than he would like to find Andor’s room; the halls look different in real life than they do on the holo-screens. He hefts his blaster in his right hand and tries the door handle with his left. Locked. He grits his teeth and punches in the override code. The door slides open with a sluggish wheeze; the machinery in this wing hasn’t been replaced in years and it shows. It’s pitch black inside; he fumbles for the switch on the inner wall and waits for the lights to power up and cast the room a sickly blue before he steps inside.

Andor’s lived here for years, but you wouldn’t know it from looking around. The room is utterly spartan; there are no pictures taped to the walls or trinkets lined up on the windowsill. Just a trunk and a bed and on the latter, a body swaddled in a blanket.

“Captain Andor,” he snaps. No response. “ _Cassian.”_ He steps over to the bed, keeping the blaster level with the body as he rips back the edge of the blanket.

Andor blinks up at him, eyes glazed and skin drenched in sweat. “Sir,” he slurs, licking his lips.

Draven takes a step back and belatedly closes the door to the room behind him. He’s not going to be responsible for unwittingly releasing a bio-contaminant into the halls. “Do you need to go into containment?”

Andor shakes his head. “Not sick.”

Draven doubts that, he really does. “In that case, you had best have a very good explanation for all of this.”

Andor releases a shuddered breath. “The drop went south, sir. The drone was one of the old N2-R0 models, they got one syringe in, hence the…” he gestures at himself with a shaking hand “Anyway. Managed to get a gun off them while they were reloading the droid. Stowed away on a carrier to get back.”

Draven leans his back against the wall and fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “And I didn’t hear of this when it was happening because…?”

“Wasn’t sure if the line was secure, sir.”

So there is some inkling of standard operating procedure left in Andor’s head. “You should have come straight to me when the carrier landed.”

He lets out a shaky chuckle at that. “Didn’t want to risk running into someone in the halls.”

Of course, because he’s pumped full of interrogation drugs and is liable to answer any question asked of him, no matter how dangerous. Visions of Andor cheerfully listing off the aliases of all current field operatives dance in his head. It’s happened before, and it’s always been a damned nightmare to clean up. “What’s been compromised? Do I need to pull anyone out?”

“No, sir.” Andor winces. “It wasn’t a truth serum.”

Draven frowns. “Then what is this?” He reaches out to rest a finger on the side of Andor’s neck. His skin is clammy and sweat-slick beneath his finger, which he expected. Cassian shudders, throwing his head back and arching up into Draven’s touch. Less expected. “Ah.”

“Melita,” he gasps. “They thought- they thought it would be more fun that way.”

As a professional, Draven is appalled. Melita is a party drug synthed on Coruscant, popular with rich kids in the club scene. It’s an aphrodisiac with a nasty streak; it anticipates and cancels out any self-stimulation. To get release, you need to go to someone else, and when release is withheld, most people get desperate enough to say all kinds of things. Most people. Not someone like Andor. They should have sprung for a truth serum. Or if they couldn’t afford it, pulled his toenails out like a normal person. Not done… this.

He realizes he’s still touching Andor’s neck; Andor’s pulse is rabbiting beneath his finger. Draven pulls his hand away. “You didn’t use your cyanide.” He doesn’t know why he asks; of course he didn’t. If he had, he’d be a frothy mouthed corpse in an alley somewhere, not writhing on his bed like this.

“I’m- I’m sorry, sir. Would’ve. If it was truth serum.”

Draven believes him. The rebellion is all Cassian has; he’d walk into hell to protect it. He’d probably bite down on the cyanide right now, if Draven asked him to. A part of him hates that Andor automatically took the question as a rebuke; he hadn’t intended it as such.

“I’m glad you didn’t. You’d be hard to replace.”

It’s all he can offer, but Andor seems to understand. His eyes flutter closed and his head lolls forward. “Please, sir. I just-I just need-“

Draven sighs. “I know what you need. You can’t have it.” Andor can’t be around people right now- no matter how good his training is, Draven can’t take the risk that he’ll start talking about things he shouldn’t just to get a hand on his cock.

Andor seems to come to the same conclusion. “Not-not a civilian. Someone with the same clearance. Sepa Bator or Varit Nedri-“

“-are both on assignment.” He isn’t surprised to learn that Andor’s willing to fuck either operative, though it speaks to the potency of the drug that he’s willing to volunteer the information to Draven.

Andor licks his lips. “When do they get back?”

“A week.” They both know he won’t make it that long. The drug will drive him mad before then. Draven can’t let that happen. He’s not risking a vital asset over something as stupid as this. “You have three options. You can wait for them to get back, you can wait it out-“

Andor shudders.

“-or you can let me take care of it for you.” He tamps down a stab of guilt; Andor should know by now that this line of work is filled with choices that aren’t choices at all.

Andor buries his head in his hands, pushing back his sweat drenched hair. “What if I say no?”

Draven can’t help it; he raises his eyebrows. “Considering what you’ve let me do to you, I will frankly be shocked that this is where you draw the line.” Draven’s run Andor through all the horrors that a counter-interrogation training program can provide. But perhaps that’s why Andor is hesitating: Draven’s hands have never brought him anything but pain. He sighs, tries again. “I won’t hurt you. Do you trust me?”

“With my life.” That would mean a whole lot more if Andor thought his life was worth anything, of course. Andor closes his eyes, and to Draven it feels like defeat. “There’s lube in the bedside table.”

Draven goes to get it, averting his eyes as Andor sits up and pulls the blanket off his shoulders with shaking hands.

He finds the lube under a well-worn garrote and a roll of gauze, and if that doesn’t tell the story of Cassian Andor, rebel spy and broken man, he can’t think of what would. He fishes the bottle out and turns back to the bed.

Andor’s leaning against the wall, watching Draven with hooded eyes as his chest rises and falls with labored breaths. He’s completely naked. Draven permits himself a moment of weakness and appreciates the view. He’s got a body well-toned by suffering; hunger and hard living have forged him into a lean and muscled weapon.

His skin is a galaxy of scars, the white lines of knives and puckering of blaster-fire drifting like constellations trailing over his arms and chest. Draven can pick out the ones he put there. There are the ones he’s placed directly- the cigarette burn on his thigh and the knife-scars curving up his chest, both from counter-interrogation drills. And then all the others that Andor’s got while following Draven’s orders on missions that went south. Knives and teeth and blaster fire, all mixed together.

Draven is consumed with the need to touch. He can’t help himself; reaches forward and grazes his hand over the planes of Andor’s stomach, resting his hand on a particularly nasty scar on his hip. Andor’s cock, swollen and leaking against his stomach, twitches at the proximity.

Andor’s breath hitches. “Sir, please-“

Sighing, Draven takes pity on him and uncaps the bottle of lube, pouring a dollop over his fingers. He rubs them together for a moment, trying not to listen to the desperate stuttering of Andor’s breath. He’s always had cold hands, but he thinks Andor is too far gone to notice. He’ll jack him off, that will work. A hand- a hand he can do. It’s impersonal. He doesn’t have to let down his barriers. He can take care of Andor, focus solely on him, and that will be that.

“Please- please sir- Fuck me-“

That’s not impersonal. That’s the complete opposite of impersonal. “You don’t want this.” He knows it’s a lost cause as soon as the words leave his mouth. Andor can’t tell what he wants; he’s either too far gone to realize this is a level of intimacy he’d never give Draven normally, or just doesn’t care.

“Sir, please,” and oh hell, he’s crying. He’s shaking with it, the tears trailing down his face and falling onto his chest. Draven’s seen him cry before, many times, during interrogations where the goal is breaking him apart. He hates how different this feels, and how similar.

If it were anyone but Andor-

Maybe it’s the tears, maybe it’s the way Andor is looking at him like he’s the whole galaxy and everything in it. He can justify it, rationalize it. Andor’s his best agent, and he’ll do anything to keep him in commission. It’s like taking care of a tool. It’s duty.

But as he eases himself onto the bed and cups Andor’s chin, watches the way his eyelids flutter shut against his tear-stained cheeks- it doesn’t feel like duty.

He takes a deep breath, rests his other hand on Andor’s hip. “May I…?

“Yes, please, anything-“ Andor is saying, his words break down into sobs as Draven moves, closing his hand around the shaft of his cock. He strokes up, down, letting the lube slick his way, easing and tightening his grip in response to the noises Andor is making. “Very good, Captain. You’re doing very well.”

He pulls his hand away, leaving Andor keening at the loss. “Lay back,” he breathes, and Andor goes down like he’s been hit with blaster fire, abasing himself on the bed, legs splayed wide.

Draven keeps most of his clothes on, just takes off his jacket and undoes the fly of his pants. He can’t let it get any more intimate than that. More intimate than this already is; for fuck’s sake this is a terrible idea-

 “I need you inside of me-“ Andor gasps.

And there’s really nothing he can do at that point but go with it. He’s taken Andor apart and put him back together so many times. What’s one more?

He takes his cock out; he’s already hard. He gives himself a few strokes, hand slick with a mixture of lube and Andor’s precum.

He settles himself between Andor’s knees and reaches down to trace a finger over his hole. He’s already loose, probably tried to fuck the drug out of his system with a toy on the carrier. Draven’s cock, traitor that it is, jumps in interest at the thought. Still, he doesn’t want to hurt Andor by charging blindly ahead. He slips a finger in, nice and easy, fucking it back and forth slowly, gently.

“Sir- I can take it, please-“

“-You’ll take what I give you,” he bites out, harsher than he intended. Blast, but Andor has always had a way of getting under his skin.

He adds a second finger easily, lets Andor’s body adjust to the intrusion. And he really should do more, but Andor is murmuring pleas beneath him and his own body is clamoring for more and he hates being so close to losing control, he hates that Andor can affect him like this.

He pulls his fingers out, lines his cock up, and then he’s sliding in, and fuck, Andor is so hot, so tight. He presses in, inch by inch, until he’s sunk to the hilt, flush with Andor’s hips. He watches Andor’s face, but there’s no pain or discomfort, just abject need. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth hanging slack. “It’s good, sir,” he’s panting. “So good, I need-“

He pulls himself back, almost all the way out, and then presses forward again, hands on Andor’s hips like vises. There are going to be bruises there in the morning. He hates how much he likes the idea of it: Andor walking around the base, marked by him, claimed by him.

He starts speeding up his thrusts; he can’t help it, no one could. Andor takes everything he gives, jerking up to meet every thrust, moaning and tossing his head against the pillows. His breath stutters as Draven finds just the right angle and hits it every time, over and over and over.

Draven can feel his own orgasm building inside him; he blindly reaches forward to grasp Andor’s cock. One, two, three twists, that’s all it takes-

Andor comes with a broken cry, arching off the bed and into Draven’s hand. And then Draven’s falling over the edge, and with one last thrust he’s going, going, gone.

He comes back to himself a moment later, lying on the bed hip flush with Andor’s thigh.

He sits up, looking down to consider the other man. Andor’s finally lying still; all that nervous energy has bled away. He looks so frail without it.

Draven tries to remember what he’s heard about coming out of a Melita fugue. It’s all vague prognostics and “case-by-case-basis,” but he can remember that as a general guideline, it feels like hell. He hesitates, reaching out to rest his hand on Andor’s forehead.

Andor pulls away. “I’m fine, sir,” he’s mumbling, refusing to look Draven in the eye.

He doesn’t look fine. He looks like shit; he looks like he lost a fight with a Wookie and got dragged through six systems afterwards

Draven wants to take care of him. He wants to wash his brow, wipe the sweat from his tired muscles, knead the tension from the knots in his back. Andor won’t accept it. He could order him to accept it.

But he won’t. Because He’s taken so much out of Andor’s hands tonight, he can’t take this too. And if Andor wants to suffer in silence, that’s his choice.

And so Draven nods tersely and stands from the bed. He zips his pants in silence, picks his jacket up from the floor and slings it over his shoulder. “If this, for whatever reason, happens again,” he says, staring at the wall just left and above Andor’s head. “You report to me immediately. Understood?”

Andor swallows. “Yes, general.”

There’s nothing else to say. He leaves, shutting the door on his way out.


End file.
